You Win or You Hide
by reading-is-in
Summary: or, or, The Adventures of Charlie and Chuck in the Mysterious Kingdom. The Good King is dead, and the cunning Lord Crowley holds the realm. The legendary Knights Winchester are sent away by tricker, and Charlie Bradbury, Page, and Chuck Shurley, jester, have one hope: to find the Knights, and with their aid restore the true Prince Castiel to the North.
1. Chapter 1

You Win or You Hide,

Or

The Adventures of Charlie and Chuck in the Mysterious Kingdom.

A/N: I have no idea how this happened. Wait, actually, I have a pretty good idea. This is what happens when I get sucked into _Game of Throne_s whilst desperately awaiting Season 9 of _Supernatural._ Semi-crack AU. Probably ¾ crack tbh.

Disclaimer: characters belong to Eric Kripke/CW, who love fanfic. Any similarity of setting to G.R.R.M's iGame of Thrones/i is certainly not co-incidental, but easily constitutes fair use. Not for profit.

1. Charlie.

If Charlie were the hero of this story, she would have warned the knights Winchester about Lord Crowley's treachery the moment she suspected it. When had she first suspected it? Probably years ago, deep down – the first time she met him even. Certainly long before he became the King's Chief Advisor. Unfortunately, Charlie was no hero, so when Crowley dispatched her to summon the Winchester brothers, she merely obeyed him. She knocked politely at their chambers, but got no answer, and one of the maids directed her to the archery range.

"Has he arranged for our execution?" asked Sir Samuel dryly. His breath made white mist in the cold air.

"Um, no?" Charlie offered, rubbing her hands together. "I mean – not that I know of."

"Like he could pull that off," Sir Dean snarled, and released his arrow too jerkily. He cursed at it hit above the bullseye. Sir Samuel raised an eyebrow and his brother glared at him. It was commonly known that whilst Sir Dean was the superior rider and swordsman of the brothers Winchester, Sam could usually best him at archery. Sir Samuel was considered the more genteel and scholarly knight, which reasonably, Charlie thought, ought to make him her favourite. In truth, though, she had a definite soft spot for the rough and outspoken Sir Dean: she believed him to be a kind man, and honest, steadfastly loyal to the King and the Prince Castiel. When Charlie were eventually forced to marry, she hoped it could be to a man of that sort. He might even be understanding of her – affliction.

In truth, at her age, she should be married already. She wasn't a girl anymore. But her parents were dead, she had no family, and her marriage wouldn't benefit anybody. She looked young, and she was a good page. For the moment - touch iron – nobody was bothered enough about her to tell her to put a dress on.

The Winchesters put away their bows, grudgingly and with deliberate slowness. They headed for the keep. Charlie paused, considered, than ran after them, hurrying to match their long strides. The knights shed their furred cloaks as soon as they entered the fire-warmed castle, handing them off to stewards. Charlie stamped clinging snow from her boots.

Lord Crowley's chambers were sumptuously appointed. The broad wooden doors were hinged and edged with silver, and mosaic tiles set around them depicted the Dragon, the sigil of his House, soaring in battle at the side of the Eagle, the sigil of the King.

"Come!" he commanded as Sir Dean raised a hand to knock.

"What the – how does he ido/i that?" Sir Dean exclaimed.

Charlie glanced up and down the empty corridor and gulped. Lord Crowley had eyes everywhere. Impulsively, she reached out, put a hand on Sir Dean's arm. He looked down at her. Charlie held his gaze, not brave enough to say anything but hoping she could put 'be careful' into her expression, 'he's planning something'. Sir Dean nodded shortly. Charlie dropped her head, allowing her red fringe to fall in front of her eyes.

Charlie entered Crowley's chambers ahead of her charges and bowed low:

"Sir Dean and Sir Samuel of Winchester, my lord," she announced, a sweep of her hand heralding the knights. One advantage to being a Page was access to most places. In this way, Charlie liked to think, she heard and saw enough to know her enemies from her friends.

"Ah!" said Lord Crowley, smiling nastily. He stood, clapped his hands together, and came around his wide oak desk to greet his visitors. The Winchesters bowed, as slightly as they could get away with.

"You sent for us my Lord?" Sir Dean glared.

"Yes, yes. I have here a letter for Lord Azazel of the Southlands." Crowley brandished a scroll closed with his wax seal. "Deliver it to him."

Sir Samuel raised his eyebrows expressively. The Good King had no business with Azazel, a cruel Lord, who kept his holdings in the fiery Southlands. It was a sevennight's hard ride to Azazel's castle and a sevennight's back: hardly the sort of errand to spare one Kingdom's best knights, leave alone two.

"Why don't you send your steward?" Sir Dean asked, and waited a beat too long before adding, "My Lord."

"Because I'm sending you," smiled Lord Crowley. "Both of you. State business you know. Terribly important to have people you trust."

A weighted pause. Lord Crowley was the second most powerful man in the Kingdom and the King's confidante. His record of service was impeccable, unwavering for over thirty years. And yet. Charlie didn't trust him, and she knew the Winchesters didn't either. He'd made his dislike for them known in multiple subtle ways, little put-downs, tasks inappropriate to their station. Charlie worked hard to keep him from noticing her. There was no way for Samuel and Dean to refuse his order.

"As you will, my Lord," said Sir Samuel tightly. The knights bowed and Crowley dismissed them.

"You boy, get me some wine," he said shortly to Charlie. She did as she was told.

Prince Castiel was walking in the gardens, alone, and Charlie was spying a little bit. She had a secret idea about the Prince, and though to even think it was probably treason, she couldn't help but observe that ever since Sir Dean's departure with his brother the previous evening, the Prince had been…melancholy. Or more melancholy than usual, blue eyes sad and reflective. The Prince was a very handsome man, much admired both by noble ladies at home and princesses abroad, but despite the pressure from the King and public to marry and get an heir, the Prince remained determinedly a bachelor.

Castiel stopped by the Glass Lake to observe the icy water. Spring was coming, and the snowdrops were starting to bud at the shores as the surface thawed and cracked. Ice broke to prisms, making rainbows, but the Prince seemed scarcely to notice the sight.

"Hello Charlie," he said.

Charlie almost jumped out of her skin, and fell head-first into the hedge she was – sort of – lurking behind.

"I – um – my lord – " she stammered, springing up and brushing twigs from her cloak:

"It's alright," a hint of a smile curved the Prince's mouth. "You are not on duty?"

"No," said Charlie quickly. "If I was I would be on duty. I mean I'd be working. I mean-"

"Come here," said the Prince. Charlie stood before him and bowed. "You are troubled."

Yes. She was very troubled, and afraid of Lord Crowley, and she wanted the Winchesters to come back and look out for the Prince.

"It's nothing," she said.

"Charlie," the Prince narrowed his eyes, considering. "You are to serve at the banquet tomorrow night, yes?"

"Yes my Lord."

The Prince sighed. "Charlene Bradbury, you are young, but your soul is pure and your heart is faithful. I would not see you in endangered."

"Endangered? How-?"

"You are my friend," the Prince reached out a gloved hand and clasped her shoulder. "I think we both know that I have few friends remaining."

'He knows,' Charlie realised, staring into the Prince's face. 'He knows that Lord Crowley is going to  
betray the Eagle'.

"But – your guards, and the King's Watch, and-"

"It's been a cruel season. We are sheltered behind these walls, Charlie, but outside the people are hungry.

There is unrest in the east and the north. Many tongues sow discord."  
Charlie could feel her face crumpling. The peaceful life she had known seemed to be collapsing around her.

"The Eagle does not command the fealty of yesteryear," the Prince said gently. "Charlie, I would not see you hurt. Do not come to the banquet tomorrow night. I promise you – no-one will be counting the servants."

"But – what about iyou/i?" Charlie said. "I don't want to see iyou/i hurt either!"

"I must serve my liege," Castiel said resignedly. "Royal birth has its curses."

"But they-" she wanted to say, 'they'll kill you', but was afraid to say the words out loud. The corner of Castiel's mouth quirked up, sadly. Charlie thought he was still too young to look so sad.

"What can I do?" she asked.

"You can run," he suggested, then drew himself to his full height: "Charlene Bradbury, you have served the Eagle faithfully, as have your parents before you. I, Castiel Prince of the North, hereby release you from your service to my Household, and all the duties and obligations entailed therein. Accept this gift in token of my gratitude for your service." He handed her a small cloth bag that clinked with coins and a few other objects. Then he sighed, and seemed to shrink visibly with the close of the formal words. "You are a free woman, Charlie. Good luck."

Charlie gripped the bag. "But I don't know where to go," she said quietly, though the seed of a mad idea was taking place already in her mind, but she wasn't looking at it, not yet.

"My cousin Gabriel has a small stronghold by the Summer Mountains," Castiel said. "There is a letter for him in the bag. He is not a rich man, and his ways are….unorthodox, but he is kind at heart."

"Then why isn't he here?" Charlie exclaimed, "Helping?!"

Castiel looked rueful. "There is nothing to help with. Officially. Besides," he sighed, "It would make little difference. Gabriel commands few men, and his first allegiance is to his own safety. He will aid his friends, but I know him too well to believe he would die for them."

Charlie bit her lips. She felt as though she would cry at any moment. She looked down at the bag in her hand, and then up at Castiel.

"Pack your things," he said quietly, in a tone that let her know she was dismissed.

In the end, she couldn't leave without seeing what happened. She didn't ihelp/i - not that she could have – but she was hiding on a balcony concealed by a heavy curtain. Lord Creedy denounced the King as a traitor and the cause of famine in the outlands he held. Crowley was too subtle to do it himself of course: he'd clearly been working on the weaker man, had him in his cups, and soon half the lords of the provinces were in arms against the King, and Charlie was gaping, horrified at the thinness of their loyalty. Crowley slid his rapier into the King from behind, and Charlie believed that in the thick of the fight, she was the only one who saw it. And then he looked up. In that instant, his dark eyes held hers like a snake transfixing a rabbit, and he sneered, said something to one of his henchmen who nodded and made for the staircase.

'He's coming to kill me', Charlie thought, and unfroze, darting down the corridor and out by the servants' staircase with no horse, weapon, food or water, but only the bag of coins clinking under her shirt.  
It was only later she realized she hadn't seen the Prince die.

"And be it known, that so following this vile treachery, Lord Alistair Crowley, Chief Advisor to the King, declares himself the Regent and Protector of the Realm until such time as the Prince return or, God prevent it, be known dead."

The crowd murmured and grumbled.

"What's he gonna do about the granary?" an anonymous man shouted. Charlie wove carefully through the crowd, keeping her head low and her hood over her face. It was the first thing she'd bought after fleeing the castle, before a wineskin and a room for the night. That was easy. The inns were buzzing with news of the battle at the castle, and the people were pouring into the streets to see what was happening. She hadn't slept a wink, but sat on her bunk by the light of a single candle, fingering the scroll the Prince had given her and trying not to wonder how he had died.

Now her head snapped up: "Return?" she asked the woman in front of her, a stern-looking matron in the lined cloak of a well-to-do innkeeper or blacksmith's wife.

"Aye," said the matron. "Have you not heard? The prince fled in the night without so much as a royal guard, and after the traitors was put down too." She shook her head, and though it could not be voiced, Charlie could see the indictment of cowardice written all over her face. Charlie frowned:

"Well what else could he do?"

"Why take up his hereditary seat!" chimed in a younger a man, "And not leave his responsibilities to such as the good Lord Crowley to manage! Did you know the Lord Crowley himself stabbed the King's killer?"

"In the back," someone murmured.

"In the chest," the young man asserted.

Charlie felt like bursting. On the one hand, the Prince had escaped. On the other, half the people believed that Crowley had saved the day, and put the rebellion down whilst the Prince ran like a dog with his tail tucked under. The herald who had spoken stepped down.

"Treachery is the most heinous of crimes," said Crowley solemnly. He was sitting in an ornate chair with the royal sceptre folded across his lap. He wore no crown – yet – but a thin circlet of gold sat nestled in his dark hair. Charlie ground her teeth to see it. "There can be but one punishment. Lords Redd and Kenton, it was your misfortunate to survive last night, unlike the rest of the traitors," he shook his head. Charlie's eyes went to the kneeing men on the other side of the dais. Their heads were bowed, hands chained behind their backs, and Crowley's men held swords at their backs. 'Say something', Charlie urged mentally, 'Tell them Crowley set you up!'. Then Lord Redd of the Burnt Hills raised his head and his mouth opened, and she  
understood why they didn't speak.

Crowley had taken their tongues first. Well, naturally.

"Your confessions were taken from you in the dawn hours," said Crowley solemnly. "Then you admitted the full extent of your terrible crimes, how you plotted the vile murder of His Grace beneath the traitor Lord Creedy-"  
At that there was the faintest murmur in the crowd. Creedy's reputation was that of a weak man, and slow-witted. Not the most likely candidate to engineer a King's death. Crowley silenced the crowd with a sharp glance.

" – and your serpent's tongues removed thereafter, lest the vile poison of your words spread any further."

At that the crowd rumbled approvingly.

"Now in the sight of God and man, let the full extent of justice be exacted upon you," Crowley's voice rang. He did, Charlie must admit, have the theatrics of a King: "My lord executioner: off with their heads."

The crowd cheered. Charlie winced. If she lived a hundred years, she would never understand the bloodthirstiness of some of her fellows. The executioner, black-hooded, stepped up and bowed to Crowley. The crowd's noise rose. Terror was clear in Redd's face, but Kenton kept his head bowed, unreadable. Charlie watched transfixed as the executioner raised his axe, but her eyes slammed shut involuntarily as metal met bone, and half of the crowd's cheers turned to gasps whilst the other half cheered louder. She kept her eyes tight shut through the second swing, but the thud of the head landing on the dais and bouncing was inescapable.

"Justice is served," said Lord Crowley, shaking the tiniest droplets of blood from the edge of his robes. "I declare this evening a feast to honour our beloved King, and praise God for the defeat of the traitors and restoration of peace in the realm."

The crowd's cheers were weaker this time. Someone shouted,

"What of the Prince?"

"Riders are sent to the Four Corners of the Kingdom to seek him," said Lord Crowley.

'I just bet they are!' Charlie thought. Suddenly she knew where she was going. The Lord Gabriel in his mountain stronghold would have to wait. Castiel still had friends, two at least, and luckily Charlie knew the road on which to find them.

"The Southland Courts, you say! My, my, my. That's no place for a pretty thing like you. You don't know what they're like to young girls in Azazel's court. " The cart driver leaned back on his seat and relaxed the reigns. He was an older man with a large belly and the roughened hands of a labourer. The back of his cart was filled with rough sacks of vegetables and grain, his horses of the sturdy farming type. He had a slow way of speech and an unhurried manner: "No, that's not the sort of thing you'd have any experience in."

"I don't want to live there," Charlie told the cart driver through gritted teeth. "Just to get there."

"Sorry darlin'….wouldn't want to get mixed up in any of that. They say he's as cruel to simple folk as his whims take him. Not every ruler is kind as the Good King, God bless and rest his soul. No, no, not at all. The Lord Azazel is quite another type."

"How about half way?" Charlie asked desperately, "Or just – as far as you're going." At this rate, she'd be meeting the knights Winchester on their way iback/i from court in any case. "I can pay," she jingled the bag of coins, which, it had fast turned out, hadn't made her as wealthy a woman as she'd thought they did. Charlie had never had any money, but conversely, food, shelter and clothing had been provided for her. It seemed she had little idea of the price of things, and how quickly they added up. And even if she could buy a horse, bridle and all the accoutrements, she was starting to realize that nobody without a sword and armour travelled alone.

"Well now, I might be inclined to take you half way," said the cart driver, and Charlie perked up, "Were it not that my road lies eastward instead of south."  
Charlie gaped a little.

"Well why didn't you just isay/i that?" she exclaimed.

"Now, now, now, young lady, there's no need to be rude," said the cart driver slowly, and Charlie threw her hands up and spun around. In her exasperation, she didn't manage to stop herself colliding with the person behind her.

"Charlie!"

"iChuck?/i" she exclaimed, as they untangled themselves and stood up. Then she hugged him. It wasn't that they'd been great friends at court, or even known each other that well, but the little jester was a welcome sight now that she found herself alone and friendless. "I thought you were dead!"

"Um…surprise?" Chuck suggested and smiled hopefully.

"I mean I'm glad you aren't," she hastened to assure him. "I'm really, really glad. How did you escape?"

"I hid in the pigsty," Chuck admitted.

"Well….that…worked," said Charlie.

"Yeah. What did you do?"

"I ran out the servant's staircase. Crowley saw me watching though. He wants me dead."

Chuck gulped. "So…what are you doing now?"

Charlie brightened: "I'm going South! The Knights Winchester are on their way to Azazel's court. I'm going to meet them on the Great Road, and then we'll find the Prince and restore him!"

Chuck stared at her: "Are you crazy?"

Charlie blinked.

"You are crazy," Chuck sighed. The little man glanced left and right nervously, then lowered his voice. "Every man left at court is either one of Crowley's or too afraid to challenge him."

"That's why I need the Winchesters," Charlie patiently explained. "You know they're the greatest Knights in the land, that's why Crowley had to get – oh my God!" her hand flew to her mouth suddenly. "Chuck, what if it was a trap? What if Azazel is waiting with his guard to ambush them?"

"Trap…?"

"No, they're too clever to fall for that," Charlie shook her head. "They're alive. I know it. Look, don't you want the Eagle restored?"

"Of course," said Chuck, and he whispered: "I just want to not die even more." His eyes widened, terrified by his own daring.

Charlie narrowed her eyes: "For a jester, you don't exactly lift the mood."

"I know," said Chuck gloomily. "I don't know why the Good King ever took me on. But Father always said I was a joke, so I suppose it's appropriate."

"Your father…." Charlie frowned. "He's rich, isn't he? A baron or something?"

"Oh, yes. Self-made man in the liquor business. I was supposed to go into it too but he said I drank too much  
of the product?"

"Would he lend us horses? To go South?"

Chuck screwed his face up. "He might. He doesn't like doing me any favours, but he's loyal as any to the Eagle. If you think really believe there's a chance – wait, what do you mean, iwe/i?"

"Well he's not going to do it on my word, is he? He doesn't even know me!"  
Pause. Chuck sighed and ran his hands over his long face, into his unruly curls. He was a small man, more or less of a height with Charlie, and with his habitual slump he was actually raising his face to her.

"Alright," he said at last, "We'll try it. Now the King's dead, I'm sure I'll end up getting killed one way or another. It might as well be for the sake of a good cause."

"That's the spirit," said Charlie. "Let's go see your father."

Sir Eamon Shurley, distiller, importer and purveyor of fine spirits, lived in a large house on the outskirts of the city, set back from the road by large iron gates. The family crest, a hogshead, displayed proudly on the twin pillars. The grounds accommodated a modest stable and room for carts and waggons. Two guards barred the doors with pikes.

"Halt!" said the first guard, a white-haired man, then recognized Chuck: "Oh. Master Charles." He made a

perfunctory bow to them: "You and your company are welcome."

"Hardly," said Chuck. "How are you keeping, master Richard?"

"Well enough," said the elderly man.

"Is my father home?"

"He is meeting with members of the merchants' guild in the sun room," said the guard. "Since the King passed,  
God rest his soul, it's been non-stop comings and goings here."

"Oh well, he's busy, maybe another time…." Chuck started to back away.

"Not so fast," Charlie grabbed him by the back of his jerkin. "I'm sure he can make time for a visit from his son."

When they entered the sun room, however, she was forced to rather revise that opinion:

"God in Heaven, not you again," Eamon Shirley complained. "What must I do to be rid of you once and for all?"

"Hello father," said Chuck meekly. "I hope you are well."

"Hardly," snorted the old knight. Like his son, he was a small man, and age had left him spare and lean. She  
could see the relation to Chuck in the bones of his face, but his eyes were harder and the set of his mouth firmer. "The trade routes are threatened by bandits and half the King's Watch is dead: those drunkards alone provided a nice little market. Still, men must drink," he shrugged. There were three other men in the sun room of varying ages, and one woman: they wore the well-made cloaks and visible jewellery of prosperous merchants. A platter of small, brightly coloured decanters and sweet dates was set on a carved wood table, and two of the men had out ledgers and quill pens. None looked particularly pleased to be interrupted. "Who are you?" Sir  
Eamon asked Charlie directly.

"Charlie Bradbury at your service sir," she bowed politely: "A humble page."

"And what is a page doing in the company of my son? That is never advisable."

Charlie looked at Chuck.

"We were wondering, sir," Chuck said, "If it might be possible to borrow a pair of horses?"

Sir Eamon narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

Charlie looked to the other merchants in the room. Then she looked at Chuck. He had said that Sir Eamon was loyal to the crown, but could she speak freely in front of the others?

"To….make our fortune?" she suggested.

Sir Eamon snorted with laughter. "In that case, you certainly need a new partner."

"I….have other partners!" she lied. "My cousins, the Knights Winchester. I go South to bring them news of our business venture."

"The Knights Winchester are alive?" Sir Eamon looked up abruptly.

"Oh yes," said Charlie.

"Gentlemen, Lady, excuse me a moment," he said to his business partners. He swept past Charlie and Chuck into the hallway and gestured for them to follow him.

"You are no cousin," he said to Charlie . "You have nothing of the Winchester or the Campbell look. I had assumed that the Winchesters died fighting for the King-"

"No!" she cut him off in excitement. "Crowley knows they're better than him. He sent the brothers South to  
Azazel's court to get them out of the way. I took the message," she admitted, then: "I didn't know."

"Then Azazel has had them killed," said Sir Eamon.

"We hope otherwise," said Chuck quietly.

"We have to try, at least," said Charlie.

Sir Eamon folded his hands together and pressed his index fingers to his mouth. "If the Winchesters are alive, and the Prince too, there is more hope for the city than I believed. I would send a fast rider and good horse – but in truth, there is no-one here I trust absolutely, not even your brothers," he addressed Chuck.

"But – me?" Chuck appeared slightly awed.

"You're a fool," said Sir Eamon tiredly, "And you drink too much. You have no head for business and I'm damned if I've ever seen a man of less use with a weapon. But," here he sighed: "I am sure that there isn't a treacherous bone in your body."

"Father," Chuck's chin trembled as though he would cry with happiness. "I – I - thank you sir!" he seemed ready to embrace his father, then thought better of it, and bowed deeply instead.

"If you fail it will be through stupidity, and that is far less dangerous."

"Yes," Chuck nodded several times.

"And you don't look like an idiot," he glanced over Charlie. "He's trustworthy?"

"Well this was all imy/i idea." Charlie was put out. "Also, I'm a woman."

"Don't advertise that on the south road," advised Eamon: "Dress as you are. I've a couple of hackneys that will  
suit. I daresay you're more used to palfreys for riding, but two on palfreys without a sword is an invitation  
to brigands. Wear your daggers and hide your purses."

Twenty minutes later, after a hurried repast of cheese, bread and dried plums, they saddled up a pair of brown sturdy horse with placid expressions. Sir Eamon had provided them with wineskins, filled saddlebags, and even a few more coins for the road. Charlie was starting to feel uncomfortably like a beggar, but she told herself that when the Prince was restored everyone would be better off for it. With hoods drawn up over their faces, they passed the inner gates, then the crossroads, and took to the south roads.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

2. Chuck.

Chuck hadn't been out of the city in a few years, but remembered the lay of the land well enough: in his younger days, he had been North and South on business for his fathers and brothers. The roads were more treacherous now, the people crueller. The cobbles of the Great Road were rough and worn, but their horses were sure-footed if not speedy. They saw few fellow travellers on the first day – those they met had a lean, hungry look, their eyes roaming briefly over Chuck and Charlie before dismissing them. Chuck was glad they had bought rough grey cloaks from father's stable boy, for even grubby, their well-made court clothes would be considered finery to a brigand.

Charlie was looking right and left, uncomfortable:

"Chuck?" she asked. Where is the farmland? The homesteads? Everything is so….quiet."

"It was a hard winter," said Chuck sadly. His companion was certainly brave, but 'sheltered' was  
putting it mildly. "Many people died. Many more lost their homes, and the lands have gone barren." All they'd felt of it in the castle was a lack of fruit, and tougher meat at table.

Charlie's eyes widened. "_Died?_ But…what about the grain stores?"

"Some couldn't afford the price; some couldn't make the journey into the city. By the year's end the stores were depleted – gone to feed the troops in the Eastern Reach. And remember the tourney in Autumn for Lady Ruby's visit? Or the feast for the Desert King? Those took far more from the coffers than could be afforded."

"But – why – why didn't the King…..?"

Chuck sighed and ran a hand down his face. Speaking like this felt dangerous, even out here. But the road before and behind them was bare, so he said quietly: "The King was…old. He had several advisors, including the Prince, but Lord Crowley had his ear. In truth, Lord Crowley has been running the kingdom for some time, and plotting this coup, I believe, for many more."

Charlie looked stricken. "How could he do it? They were friends."

"No," Chuck corrected her: "Monarchs don't have friends."

"Sir Dean is Castiel's friend, and he's the Crown Prince."

"Maybe now. But if Castiel succeeds he'll have to put friends aside."

Charlie looked like she wanted to object, but instead she asked: "What do the people think? they understand, right, that it's Crowley's fault? They want the Prince back?"

"They want to eat," said Chuck, "They want bread and beer, and to know there'll be bread and beer tomorrow. They want to keep their homes and trades. I believe that a year under Crowley's rule, and they'll take you or I for a King if we could promise them better."

Charlie was silent. He watched the expressions flit across her face as she processed.

"What would you do?" she asked quietly. "If you were King?"

Chuck laughed. "Drink the contents of the wine cellars, then fall on my sword."

"Castiel will be a great king," said Charlie firmly.

Chuck hoped so. In any case, he would hold the realm better than Crowley, and probably better than his father had. On the off-chance he was still alive, of course. As they rode, the snow melted, leaving the ground hard and gritty. The sky was dull, overcast iron, unchanging down to the horizon. They pushed on as far as they were able, and when night fell, got a room at a modest-looking inn that charged twice what it should, being the only one on the road for miles in either direction. But the food was unobjectionable, the fire warm, and Charlie was pleasant conversation. Chuck found he was less nervous around her than – well, anyone, really.

"Hey," said Charlie suddenly, "Look at that."

He turned his head to where she was staring, behind him:

"No don't look!" she contradicted herself. "I meant metaphorically! But that woman is giving you the eye."

Chuck of course looked again. The woman in question was brunette, dark curling hair and dark eyes: she would have been very pretty if not for the cruel smirk of her mouth, which Charlie didn't seem to notice. Her companions were just as unsettling: three rough men, with biceps the size of Chuck's thighs, their faces half concealed by scruffy beards but their knives visible at their belts. One bore a slash scar down the side of his cheek, leaving his left eye permanently closed. The woman saw Chuck look, and met his eyes over her goblet.

She licked her lips.

"You should go for it," Charlie seemed to think she was helping.

"I…really think she has enough company," Chuck replied, and tried to disappear into his cloak.

"Your loss," said Charlie, and almost, for a second, Chuck thought she looked wistful.

They were back on the road at first light. The sky was paler now, and the air less cold. The lands here hadn't suffered so badly – they passed farms still in operation, and traded polite nods with the odd passing merchant. There was growth at the side of the road, too – bushes and trees. Chuck found his mind wandering. He still couldn't believe he'd agreed to this death wish of a mission, but he was, as father said, rather an idiot, and probably always destined to get himself killed in some inglorious fashion. He-

"Good day mother," said Charlie. He looked up, and jerked his horse to a stop just in time to avoid running over a hunched old woman. She wore a hood over her face and hair, and her robe looked religious, though Chuck couldn't at first glance see any kind of emblem. "Are you lost?"

"Not lost, my dear," croaked the old woman.

"May we help you?" Chuck asked. "It's a dangerous road to be alone and on foot."

"Oh, I'm not alone," she said, stood up straight, and threw her hood back. By the time Chuck realized it was the woman from the inn, her companions had sprung from the bushes and surrounded them with their daggers. Charlie squeaked and fumbled for her small blade, but Chuck just sighed and put his hands up.

"Our purses are attached to our belts," he admitted. "Don't hurt us?"

The woman sauntered up to him and ran a hand deliberately up his leg. Chuck shuddered. "Now let's see," she unhooked his purse and emptied the few coins into her hand. "Oh, really. I know you can do better than that, blue eyes."

"He can't," Charlie said quickly. "We're poor, really. Just a couple of poor travellers. Not worth killing or maiming in any way to be honest."

"Oh now sweetness I find that hard to believe," the woman grinned lasciviously at Charlie and moved in that snakelike way over to her horse. She ran a hand up and down the bridle. "I saw your fancy clothes under those cloaks at the inn last night. And what's this? A hogshead?" Oh, crap. The horses' blankets. "House of Shurley, hmm?"

"They'll have liquor," said one of the ruffians.

"They'll have _money_," the woman corrected. "Now that I think about it, that _is_ the Shurley jawline." She swung back to Chuck and gripped his chin in her hand, hard. Her nails dug into his cheeks as he tried to refrain from biting his tongue. She smiled like a wolf: "You're Simon Shurley."

"Nnnnf!" Chuck protested frantically, trying to shake his head: "Hesh my bruvver!" Then: 'OH, CRAP.' He shouldn't have said that. What was _wrong_ with him?

"Ohhh!" Her eyes widened. She released his chin and slapped his cheek. Chuck winced, feeling the half-moons of her fingernails like lines of fire. "Old Eamon has another son?"

"No," said Chuck quickly. "I mean yes but my father hates me. He doesn't give me money."

"If he hated you, you'd be dead," sneered one of the ruffians, blade hovering a little closer to Chuck's side. Chuck breathed in. "Not out on the road in your pretty clothes with your _pretty_ little wife."

"I'm not his wife," Charlie objected.

"Is that so?" the woman raised an eyebrow. "Don't you worry sweetheart - out here, no-one's judging.  
Tie them up," she instructed her brigands abruptly. "If old Eamon will keep this son alive he'll pay ransom for him."

"He really won't," Chuck assured her, as the brigands yanked his hands behind his back and tied him roughly. He felt his knife removed and was patted down for more weapons.

"Well I should just kill you now then," the woman said.

"I mean he will," Chuck corrected himself. "Just not much."

"We'll see what Azazel thinks about that," the woman tossed over her shoulder as she turned away.  
Chuck and Charlie were pulled unceremoniously from their horses. Their eyes met and widened. The brigands took their cloaks, bags and the metal from their reins, then turned the horses loose. The world tilted – then the breath was knocked out of him, and Chuck realized he was sideways across a tall, sleek black horse. Another brigand bound his ankles. Charlie, opposite, was in the same position. Chuck met her eyes and wanted to say,

"Azazel! But we're kidnapped! But Azazel!" or something similar, but a hood was yanked roughly over his head, leaving him in darkness.

*

Though he couldn't see the scenery passing any longer, Chuck could feel that these horses moved much faster than their own. Unfortunately, in his current position, that meant a great deal of jarring and jostling and the occasional very definite bruise when the road was bad. By the time they yanked his hood off and untied his arms, his limbs were so numb that he fell from the horse. The brigands let him hit dirt.

"Hey!" he heard the woman exclaim above the ringing in his ears, "Watch the goods! They're worthless if we break them, genius." She approached and prodded him with one tough leather boot. Chuck considered it best to roll over.

"This is it for the night, sugarcakes. Have a drink." She tossed him a wineskin, which he guzzled eagerly, ignoring the pain in his – everything – as he sat up. He realized there was grass under his breeches.

"I'm alright, thanks for asking," Charlie called from across the camp. Camp? Yes, the brigands were hurriedly setting up a fire in a small clearing. They had left the road, and the horses were tethered to a tree, grazing. Chuck and Charlie were propped against a large oak with their ankles still tied together, and the brigands took turns in guarding them while the others ate. They were roasting pigeons: Chuck's mouth watered and he heard Charlie's stomach grumble.

"So," he said gloomily.

"So," Charlie agreed.

"I did say we'd get killed."

"We're not killed!"

"We will be."

Charlie huffed. "Doesn't it get tiring being so negative all the time?"

"Doesn't it get annoying being so blindly optimistic?"

They glared at each other for a moment.

"look, we're going to Azazel's castle," said Charlie in a low voice, "and much faster than if we were on our own. What more do you want?"

"Beer, food, sleep, my legs untied, and the guarantee of my safety."

Charlie made a face and refused to talk to him for a while. They were fed, eventually – the greasy scraps from the bones of the birds and a hard heel of bread between them, which they devoured with gusto. The woman relieved the brigand on duty, and the camp settled down to sleep. Unbelievably, Charlie dozed off. Chuck stared, trying to wake her with the force of his disgust, but nothing happened, so he turned his attentions to their captor. She was watching him too, from the corner of one eye, and sharpening a wicked curved knife on a piece of flint.

"Like what you see?" she asked silkily.

"No," said Chuck. "I mean, yes, but. I mean-"

The woman laughed, throwing back her head so her dark hair rippled. She got up and crouched down in front of him, leaning forward so the tops of her breasts pressed against her leather bodice. They were uncomfortably close to Chuck's face, and her knife was uncomfortably close to another area.

"Really sugar, there's no need to be afraid of me. I'm just trying to make my way in this big bad world, same as you are."

Chuck made a sound that might have been taken as disbelief.

The woman paused, seemingly considering. "I'm Meg," she said at last.

"Ch- Chuck," he offered.

"_Chuck_?"

"It's short for Charles," he said, hurt.

"Okay sweetcheeks," she chuckled.

"So…you…serve Lord Azazel?" Hey, while they were talking, he wasn't dying.

"Uh, no. _Serving_ isn't exactly my thing, honey. Azazel's more like…..an associate."

"What are you going to do with us?" he asked.

"Hand you over. If he thinks he can ransom you he'll pay me. If he doesn't…" she shrugged.

"Did I mention my father is really, really rich?" Cuch widened his eyes.

Meg laughed and threw her head back: "Tell it to Azazel, baby."

With the brigands horses, the ride to Azazel's fort went fast and hard. After the first two days the brigands didn't bother hooding them – either Meg judged they were far enough from their own lands that making a break for it wouldn't seem appealing, or the few words she'd exchanged with Chuck had softened her enough to grants them a small mercy. The lands grew populous, then sparse again, great dull plains and scrubby foliage. It was warm – warmer than the North in spring, and the people went without cloaks. There were trees and flowers Chuck only dimly remembered, and the air smelt of the sea. He had never been so far from home.

Azazel's castle loomed suddenly, dramatically from a hilltop. The keep was built of dark stone, the moat almost black, and the flag of the Horned Goat leered ominously from the turrets. Chuck gulped, and realised that beside him, Meg was doing the same. 'She's nervous!' With an irrational surge of hope, he filed the knowledge away.

Meg and company were admitted at the drawbridge by a pair of hulking spearmen. Meg's brigands disappeared, and Chuck and Charlie were marched through the keep by Azazel's soldiers, all in bronze-plate armour. Meg sauntered at their backs. The interior of the Castle was decorated with dark yellow drapery, the walls adorned with tapestries of gory hunting scenes. The Great Hall, at the end of a long corridor, was guarded by twin swordsmen stood either side of great dark wood doors. Above the doors hung a bronze goat's head, face twisted and laughing. Its horn were long and savage, and its tongue lolled from its lips.

The Hall was as large as the King's, but emptier. A few retainers slouched here and there with their blades on prominent display, eyeing each other and the newcomers suspiciously. The dark-yellow colour scheme was continued, high drapes obscuring the windows and bronze braziers. Azazel's seat was bronze. So were his robes, and the circlet he wore on his high forehand and – if Chuck wasn't totally nuts now – his eyes themselves had a dark yellow glint to their irises.

"Daughter," he greeted Meg, and Chuck's eyes widened. Meg swallowed, looked down and then up with a nervousness Chuck recognised entirely.

"Father," she said warily, "I've brought you bounty. This is Charles Shurley, the younger son of Eamon Shurley. A rich merchant," she clarified.

"I see," Azazel's golden gaze raked Chuck, then Charlie: "And this is?"

"My sister," blurted chuck. "The lady Charlie."

"Charles….and Charlie. And you are siblings."

"Uh, it's a family name?"

"Ha!" Azazel threw his head back and barked laughter. "Well, we'll soon see what your _family name_ is worth. Why were you trespassing in the Southlands?"

"We weren't!" Charlie said indignantly. "We were travelling on the Great Road when these people assaulted us. They took our money and set our horses loose! When the true Prince returns you will answer for harassing his citizens, sir."

"The true Prince?" Azazel drawled, leaning back in his chair. Suddenly Chuck saw how Meg resembled him. "And who might that be?"

"Prince Castiel, of course."

"Castiel is dead." Azazel said it so flatly, with such certainty, that Chuck's stomach sunk like a  
lead weight.

"No," Charlie's lip quivered.

"And with him dead, and the Eagle's beak at last out of my affairs, I shall pursue justice in my own  
way on my own lands. Lock up the trespassers," he snapped.

"We didn't trespass!" Charlie yelled. Meg stepped up and slapped her across the face:

"Speak when you're spoken to, prisoner."

Charlie's mouth opened and closed a few times in apparent disbelief. Chuck hung his head and  
presented his bound hands to the nearest bronze-plated guard.


	3. Chapter 3

3. Charlie

"Charles. And his sister Charlie," she shook her head. "Really, Chuck? Really?"

"I panicked!"

"Why didn't you make up a name?"

Chuck sighed. "I have a really bad imagination."

They were locked in adjoining cells, with iron bars between them, bars in front of them facing a central corridor and stone at their backs. Each cell had a pallet, a chamber pot and a water jug. The only light came from a window at the far end of the corridor. It was cold.

"Will your father really ransom us?" Charlie asked in a

small voice.

"Well," said Chuck after a pause. "He liked you."

"He iliked/i me?"

"Oh yeah. Trust me. By dad's standards, that was like."

"Huh."

They fell silent for an indeterminate time.

"What do you suppose will happen now?" Charlie asked.

"They'll send horses to my father's homestead. If he's feeling especially generous, he might help us. If he doen't answer they'll kill us."

A sob rose in Charlie's throat. She hated Meg more than she'd ever hated anyone. How – why – for a few pieces of gold – the respect of the awful Azazel – she would get them imurdered/i? How could anyone be so wicked?

It was her fault. Clearly, she knew nothing about the world, and Chuck had tried to warn her. "Do you hate me? she asked quietly.

"No," said Chuck: "I should have stopped you."

Charlie frowned. That didn't sound right at all. But she grew hungier and colder, exhausted but unable to sleep, and she wished – she wished she'd never –

"Why would he say Castiel was dead?" she asked abruptly. Chuck was licking the tin platter from the last bits of porridge they'd been given. He lowered it from his face:

"Maybe he is."

"How would Azazel know?"

"Maybe he killed him."

Just as Charlie was starting to think, for the first time in her life, that this was truly the end of the line, the clink of chains from the corridor made her look up abruptly. A hunched figure was marched past in chains between two bronze-plated guards. Even bent as he was, with his face concealed, Charlie recognised the lanky frame and shaggy hair. The exclamation "Sam!" rose to her lips. She stifled it. She must have made some sound, however, because Sam's head turned just enough for her to catch his eye. He looked different – darker and dirtier- but he was still in his armor. To her surprise, Charlie saw he was armed. He made no attempt to break free from his guards though. When their eyes met, Sam's widened with recognition. Charlie quelled herself, but once the guard passed, she slapped the bars of her cell and hissed,

"Chuck!"

"What? What?" Chuck sprang awake.

"Sam Winchester is here."

"What? Where?" Chuck looked all around as though he expected to be rescued at any moment.

"Well not ihere/i here," Charlie admitted. "I mean here at the castle. He's a prisoner, like us."

Chuck stared at her. "That's the good news?"

"The good news is he's not dead," Charlie pointed out. "And if Sam's here, so must Dean be."

"It's more likely," Chuck said slowly. "I can't see why they'd keep one alive and not the other."

"So," Charlie brightened: "now we just all need a way to get out and find Castiel."

Chuck thought. Then he said: "You know, ridiculous as that sounds, the fact that we've made it this far is pretty ridiculous. So what the hell," he shrugged. "What's your plan?"

"I haven't gotten that far yet. But look, it's the Winchesters. They'll be working on one right now."

A short while later, Sam was escorted back through the passage. Charlie stared at him, but this time he deliberately didn't look at her. There were splashes of blood on his breastplate, but he moved unhampered. 'He's fighting? Why? For who?' Charlie's mind spun with questions.

That night – Charlie thought it was night from the light quality – the slave paused when she came to empty the chamberpots. The slave was young, pretty, kept her eyes on the floor and her hair over her face. From the dirt on her skin and the look in her eyes, it didn't seem likely she bore any love to Azazel.

"Hi," Charlie said, thinking that any friend couldn't be a bad thing. The girl ignored her.

"I'm Charlie," Charlie offered. The girl paused, didn't turn around. But she blew out her breath and looked left and right. Chuck came up to the bars.

"Are you okay?" he tried. The girl said nothing. But the next night she was back, and this time she stopped in Chuck's cell:

"Your friend says to say yes." Her voice was so quiet it was almost inaudible. Charlie sprung up and pressed closer. It was Chuck who had been addressed, but she took charge:

"Yes? Yes to what? What friends? You've seen the Winchesters?"

"Shh," said the girl frantically: "Keep your voice down. I'm not supposed to be talking to you."

"You've seen the Winchesters?" Charlie asked again, more quietly.

"Yes," whispered the girl. "Dean Winchester says: when they ask you, say yes."

"Yes to what?" asked Chuck.

"That's all I know," the girl lied badly. She sucked her thin lips in.

"Please!" Charlie begged. "Yes to what? You have to help us," but the girl shook her head, clutched the chamber pot tighter and scurried out of the cells.

They got the answer soon enough.

"You!" a guard pointed at Chuck with a thin blade. "Can you fight? Shoot? Joust?"

Chuck blinked, and Charlie coughed loudly.

"YES," said Chuck.

"Can you wield a sword?"

"….yes," said Chuck.

"Alright come with me. We're down three competitors." The guard let himself into Chuck's cell and clicked a single manacle around his right wrist. The manacle was attached to a chain, which the guard kept hold of. Then he showed Chuck the door.

"I can fight too," Charlie called. It was almost true. She'd had a few lessons with a short blade when she was younger, just enough to defend herself in a fair fight with a single assailant. She could also shoot well enough.

"You're a woman," the guard looked her over.

"So?"

"No place for women in the lists."

"Lists?" squeaked Chuck.

"Aye, the lists! How else is Lord Azazel like to find his champion?"

4. Chuck

"Probably I shouldn't joust today," Chuck said to the page who was lacing his breastplate. " Not that I _can't_, of course. I just mean, it's been a while since I've jousted, and, well. it takes time to get back in the way of things. Oh, and you know, I think my toe is sore, my big toe…that's the one I use for spurring? I probably sprained it. Maybe I should just watch the others today?"

"Get on with it," said the guard from the doorway. "You can fight or you can get back in the cell, which is it?"

"Yes sir," said Chuck. "I mean, fight sir." The guard grunted. The page was silent: a grim-faced boy of fourteen or fifteen, he bore more than a passing resemblance to the horses behind them. Azazel kept a fine stable, at least twenty horses with black and bronze coats, fiery eyes and the sigil of the Eye on their accoutrements. One thing Chuck could admit for the man: he had a sense of style.

Chuck was wearing armour. It was – heavier than it looked, tin plate with no emblem and nothing distinctive about it. "Lance," grunted the page, and shoved a thin blade at Chuck. Chuck dodged, then realized he was supposed to take it. He had jousted exactly once before, forced into it by his older brother, and he wondered if this was simply a plan to kill him by entertaining means.

He took the lance and mounted the charger brought out for him. It was a stallion: black, sleek and extremely powerful. Chuck gave the forward command and the horse snorted shook his mane derisively, prancing in place a little. Chuck's visor clanged down across his face.

"'E don't like your chances," said the page, grinning to show a gap between his front teeth. "And 'e don't like to lose."

"Out you go!" the guards opened the stable doors and Chuck had no choice but to urge the stallion out into the tourney grounds. It was a bright cool day, and many of Azazel's retinue had turned out to fill the stands. Azazel himself sat on a dais decorated by his flags. Meg was not him, Chuck noticed, and quickly scanned the lists. He caught sight of her in the ordinary stands, a horn of ale in one hand. She grinned nastily and waved at him. Chuck had a lance in one hand and a shield in the other, but for some strange reason, his initial impulse was to wave back.

At the other end of the jousting field was a man on horseback. At least his armour was plain too – less likely a knight then.

"Andrew of Gallagher versus Charles Shurley!" called a herald, and a trumpet blew. "Charge the first!" Andrew of Gallagher surged forward. Chuck froze, squeezed his eyes shut and gripped his lance, but the stallion had decided they were playing. The great horse charged, and Chuck held on. Hooves thundered beneath him. the crowd's roar blurred in his ears, and he felt sick – the other rider passed in a rush of air, and then they were circling, trotting, at the far end of the lists.

"No strike!" called the herald.

'I'm still alive!' The crowd booed. The herald's trumpet sounded again:

"Charge the second!"

This time Chuck had a plan. Giving up any thought of knocking the other man off his horse, he simple lurched to the left to avoid his opponent's lance. Andrew's weapon glanced off the side of his breastplate as they passed. The crowd booed louder, and the great stallion seemed to agree – he snorted and shook Chuck angrily.

"Charge the third!"

On the last charge Chuck managed to avoid the lance entirely, though he almost fell off his horse.

"Craven!" called the crowd: "Cowardice!"

Chuck raised a hand meekly in acknowledgment. That got him a few laughs, at least. The stallion had had enough – he bucked, neighing angrily, and Chuck hit dirt. The back of his head clanged against his helmet and his teeth jarred together, pain ricocheting through his skull. Dimly, he was aware of the crowd laughing harder. When the stars cleared from his vision, Andrew of Gallagher was standing over him. With his visor up, Chuck saw that the other man was young, with wide brown eyes and a friendly face.

"What are you _doing_?" asked Andrew.

"I'm not a knight," Chuck groaned, struggling for breath: "I'm just trying not to get killed."

"Well – what do you think Lord Azazel does to the losers?" Andrew offered a hand and helped Chuck up.

"Uh – sends them home with a consolation prize, maybe?"

Andrew rolled his eyes. "This is a _death match_. An elimination process. I didn't knock you off your horse, so you didn't lose, exactly, but you won't get another chance."

"Oh," said Chuck, then, "Wait!" as Andrew turned to go. "Have you seen a pair of knights from the Northlands? Brothers?"

"The Winchesters? Of course. Who hasn't? I'll introduce you at the tournament quarters."

*

The quarters, where Chuck was escorted after the joust, were definitely a step up from the prison. They were barracks, bolted from outside and guarded by Azazel's men, but inside there was food and water and pallet beds and even a hearth. The windows were barred, but at least light got in. Chuck was allowed to clean himself up, then Andrew led him into the main hall.

Pallets lined either side of the long room. Several were occupied: men lounged or played at cards or stared moodily out of the window. even unarmed, they looked like knights: tall and well-muscled. Some gave Chuck a derisive glance and others ignored him.

"I know," said Andrew, when Chuck looked at him again: "I'm primarily an archer."

"How long have you been here?" Chuck asked.

"Eight nights. I won't last much longer."

Chuck supposed he should say: "Of course you will!" but really, that was groundless, so he said, "You might if you fight me again."

One of the real knights snorted.

"So – the Winchesters?" Chuck prompted.

"Back room," said another man, gesturing with a thumb to a wooden door adjoining. "Shacked up together as usual." There were general sniggers. "Think they're better than us."

"They _are_ better than us," Andrew pointed, "Better warriors, I mean."

"We'll see about that."

"O-kay," Chuck edged towards the door. "I'm gonna go in here now." There were no locks in the interior, so he scurried inside. It was smaller and dimmer in this room, dull without a window.

Sir Dean Winchester himself looked up from his wine and said to Chuck,

"Who the hell are you?"


	4. Chapter 4

5. Chuck

"Well, I'm Chuck Shurley," said Chuck to the knight. "You sent a message to say yes…that I could fight….and I'm here! "

"Riiight," Sir Dean narrowed his eyes.

"No he is!" said Samuel, his saviour: "It's true. This is the jester! I told you I recognised him! Think of him in the hat, with less beard," he said to his brother.

"Ohhhh yeah," Sir Dean brightened, and suddenly appeared a lot less threatening: "Weren't you drunk at the Winter Feast?"

"Probably," Chuck admitted.

"Yeah! You were trying to flirt with that barrel, then a candle holder fell on you."

"I remember the bruises," said Chuck.

"So what are you doing here?" Sam asked, frowning now.

"Well, I'm here on an urgent mission for the sake of the kingdom and salvation of the North and stuff. Also we got captured. Me and Charlie Bradbury. She said that you guys could restore Castiel. We think he's still alive. Charlie's pretty sure, but you know, she's kind of an optimist."

"Wait, wait," Sam sat down on the pallet and gestured for Chuck to have a seat. There was a wooden bench against one wall, so he took it. "_Restore_ the prince? Why would-"

"Still alive?" Dean cut him off. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Okay," Chuck blew out his breath. "I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news. But stuff happened in the North. A coup, to be honest. Crowley's men hold the city and Crowley has declared himself regent. The King is dead."

The Winchesters stared at him. They didn't resemble each other, but they could sure pin you with the same look. Chuck gulped.

"But Cas," Dean said sharply: "He escaped."

"Um, yeah," Chuck said carefully, unnerved at the nickname. It seemed rather too familiar for a prince. "We think so."

"You think so."

Chuck wanted to remind Dean that they were on the same side here, that he, personally, was all for the rescue and restoration of the prince. Instead he asked Sir Samuel,

"So what were you doing down the dungeons? And why did you tell me to say 'yes'?"

"Uhh, to get you out of prison?" the knight raised his eyebrows. "And I was being taken to the field. An alternative route: Dean and I aren't very popular with the crowd."

"We win too easy," Dean grinned. "Doesn't give them enough entertainment."

"But –but – you've gotten me into a deathmatch! I'm gonna get slaughtered."

Dean rolled his eyes. "We won't let you get slaughtered. There's way more chance of escape up here than there is from down in the dungeons. We're working on a plan."

Chuck sighed with relief. Of course, the Winchesters were working on a plan. But, his thrice-damned conscience protested: "Charlie's still down there."

The Winchesters nodded sombrely. "That's harder," Sam admitted.

"You could say she's, like, your lady, and you fight better in her presence," Dean suggested.

"I already said she was my sister."

Sam and Dean looked at each other and said in unison, "Ewwww."

"I don't think Azazel believed us though."

"Alright we can spin this," Sam said. "She's your iforbidden/i love. The reason your dad doesn't like you. So you ran away, and were trying to keep it a secret, but now that you are separated you're pining away without her."

"Azazel doesn't care if he's _pining away_," Dean snorted. "Say he can't fight without her inspiration on the field."

"Why brother, how surprisingly romantic of you," Sam teased, and Dean made a rude gesture at him. Chuck stared. For such legendary figures, the Winchesters sure didn't act very – well, legendary. "Anyway that won't work," Sam dismissed. "They could just drag Charlie out and display her in chains whilst Chuck's on the field, then toss her back in the dungeons afterwards. It's not a reason to bring her ihere/i."

They all paused, thinking hard. And then, for once in his life, Chuck had an idea.

6. Charlie.

"You," the guard pointed.

"Me?" Charlie squeaked.

"You're a healer?"

She blinked. But, remembering the words of the slave girl, told him bravely, "YES."

"Alright, come with me." He strode up to her cell and unlocked it, grabbed her by the arm, and clamped a cuff around her wrist.

"Ow!" she protested as he marched her out.

"You know the Mad Snow Fever of the North? How to cure it?"

Charlie almost laughed, both at the ridiculousness of it and in relief: there was really only one person who would come up with that.

"Oh yes," she said blithely, "It's a special interest, in fact. I'll need to see the patient immediately, though. Time is of the essence."

The guard grunted and marched her out through the corridor and up a short flight of steps.

"And bring warm water, and make sure the room's warm!" That would be excellent at this point. "Cold is the worst thing for the Madness."

The guard eyed her: "Don't push your luck."

They crossed a flagstone courtyard flanked by stone towers. Azazel's flag blew proudly in the wind and Charlie repressed a scowl. A few passers-by cast her scornful looks, and she realized wondered what she must look like. Dirty, bruised and hungry, with her clothes all torn, but hope was springing up in her again. Strong. They crossed a second courtyard, heading for a low set of buildings near te stables. There were bars on the windows and guards stationed outside, though it didn't exactly have the look of a prison. Azazel's crest was displayed above the door. The guards exchanged short nods, then Charlie was marched inside.

It was barracks. The men inside, however, were not Azazel's soldiers. They were unarms and unhappy. The dark looks they shot Charlie's guard left no doubt that they wanted out. They shot Charlie looks of a different sort, and she supposed they hadn't seen a woman in a while.

Chuck was standing nervously by an inner door, rubbing his hands together. Charlie restrained herself from hugging him.

"OH CHARIE I'M SO GLAD YOU'RE HERE," said Chuck theatrically. "It seems that one of Azazel's champions has come down with the dreaded Mad Snow Fever. These Southern healers haven't even heard of it!"

"Well," said Charlie. "That's to be expected it. They wouldn't see it down here. Show me the patient!"

Chuck opened the door and stepped aside. Charlie peered in, and beheld Sir Dean Winchester sprawled dramatically on a pallet bed. His pale skin was flushed red, and catching Charlie's eye, he declared,

"Begone, mad dog! I declare you a donkey's mother! " in his brother's general direction. Sam Winchester was perched on the bed, trying to look solicitous, but an expression of irritation briefly crossed his face at the obvious excuse to insult him. The guards made to follow Charlie but she turned and glared at them:

"Do you want to contract the Northern Fever? It would kill you! See how it lays low this mighty warrior, and he is of the North!" The guards hesitated and looked at each other. Sir Dean gave messy cough in their direction.

"We'll be right outside," they promised and quickly retreated.

"Phew!" the moment the door was shut, Sir Dean sat up and reached under the bedclothes, producing a bundle of heated towels which he flung on the floor. "Guess all that practice getting out of lessons paid off."

"Think you could act it up anymore next time?" Samuel asked dryly. "Maybe throw in some moans for effect?"

"They bought it didn't they," Sir Dean returned. "Hi Charlie, good to see you."

Charlie couldn't help herself. She flung herself on the knight and hugged him.

"Oh – hey," said Dean a little awkwardly, though he hugged her back. "Are you okay?"

"Could be worse," said Charlie philosophically. "Starving though."

"We have food here," Chuck said. "I'll get you some."

"Thanks. And clean water?"

"I'll help him." Sam and Chuck went to fetch the provisions.

"Charlie," asked Dean urgently, "Is Cas safe?"

"I – I think so," she said. "He knew what Crowley was planning. Or at least, suspected. I'm sorry, I should never have brought you the message."

"It isn't your fault."

She shrugged. Dean glanced away, and there, in that look, she knew with a heavy surety:

"You love him."

"He is my sovereign," said Dean automatically.

"No. You. Love. Him. You_ personally_. You love Cas."

Dean stared at her.

"How long?" Charlie asked.

Now Dean shrugged. Then he laughed a little, resigned. "I suppose….since I met him, there was something. Since the day Sam and I swore our swords to the Eagle. And it just….got more, with time."

"Does he know?"

"No," Dean said quickly. "He can never know."

"But if you don't tell him, how can he-"

Dean cut her off, incredulous. "Charlie, it's _wrong_."

"Then I'm wrong too," she said simply. It was hardly more dangerous than the rest of her life now. Dean opened his mouth as though he would answer that,, but Chuck and Sam returned then. They brought warm water, washcloths, bread , cheese and apples, cold ham and a jug of ale.

"I love you both," Charlie said, and fell to eating.


	5. Chapter 5

7. Charlie.

Now that she knew for sure, Charlie felt a warm glow off affinity for Dean Winchester, and wanted to ask him a hundred questions. Was it only the Prince? Or had he always been afflicted by the wrong desire? Was he, in short, like her – an exciting prospect, though admittedly not as exciting as meeting another _woman_ who – well, never mind. There was no point in thinking about that. Did he think there was any chance that the Prince might return his affections? Because Charlie did. It wasn't anything she could put her finger on…but she saw these things. She observed.

Well, there was no chance of asking him anything until they were alone again. Even if Sam knew, Chuck certainly didn't, and it wasn't that Charlie thought Chuck would hate them or anything, but depending on Chuck to keep a secret was like depending on a paper boat to cross the Treacherous Shoals. And it didn't look like they'd be getting any time alone until they escaped the barracks.

The Winchesters had a plan. It depended on getting a few other soldiers to side with them, and, though the others seemed to have no particular love for the brother knights, they were as keen to escape as anyone.

"You'll be taking your chances," Sam advised them that night. The Winchesters, Chuck, Chuck's friend Andrew, a Knight from the Southern Isles named Jacob Talley and a pale fierce man whose name Charlie didn't know where all gathered in the Winchesters' quarters. "We can't promise you'll survive."

"What else is new," said Sir Jacob dryly. "Just tell us the plan." As Sam explained, with the inner door open, more knights perked up and began to listen, intrigued by the possibility of escaping. So it was Chuck and Charlie found themselves hammering at the outer door, yelling,

"HELP! GUARDS!"

And the door swung inwards, and Charlie cried,

"It's the Madness! The Madness is on them!"

"Stop!"

Half the knights had turned on the other half, punching, kicking and throttling.

"The contagion!" cried one guard, grabbing his fellow's sleeve:

"If they kill each other before time, the Lord will have our heads anyway!"

The commotion drew guards from further down the corridor, and with swords out, they tried desperately to separate the combatants whilst touching them as little as possible. Then, quiet as a snake, Dean slipped a thin blade from his boot and into the side of the guard trying to restrain him. Of course, the Winchesters had found a way to conceal a couple of weapons. The guard fell, dying, and in the general chaos just one of his fellows noticed.

"Hey!" that man cried, but just then, Sir Jacob Talley cut off his voice with a length of cloth, twisted into a hard rope and wrapped around his neck. Charlie spent most of the melee that followed running for the door, but she gathered that quite a few of the knights died with the guards, including the pale man. Chuck was right behind her, and the Winchesters not far behind him – which was a good thing, as the next thing they knew, a fresh set of guards came racing up the corridor. The Winchesters took two each, taking swords and shields from them once they were dead – Chuck and Charlie pretty much ducked and hoped for the best, though Charlie did manage to knee one in the genital area, which she considered her heroic deed for the day. They fought their way to the courtyard: night had fallen, which aided concealment, but the noise had roused more of Azazel's men. They needed to reach an escape tunnel at the back of the castle- the Winchesters had learned of it from the serving girl. It was old, older than Azazel's reign, and could well be blocked up by now, but it still seemed a better chance than the main gates. The bell in the great keep was clanging now, sounding the alarm, but most of the guards that responded to it were racing for the barracks. The wall was in sight. But then someone spotted the escapees, and a cry went up, and Charlie screamed as an arrow ripped past her, leg, close enough that she literally felt the friction. The Winchesters held the shields up as best they could, and she felt more arrows bounce of them – then they were at the wall – but no! A group of armed men were blocking their way. And in their midst –

- _her_. Bile rose in Charlie's throat. Meg, smug and self-possessed. Charlie had never thought she could kill anyone, but now she thought if she had the chance, Meg might be an exception.

"Well well well," she drawled, toying theatrically with an ornate dagger: "If it isn't daddy's little favourites."

"One warning, bitch," Dean held out the blade he had taken from the dead guard.

"Or what? You'll vanquish six men with the power of your magic sword?" She raised her eyebrows. "Don't think I don't know what they say about you, baby."

Dean turned an unnatural shade red.

"Move," said Sam quietly, at his brother's side, "Or I'll run you through."

"Is that a promise, sugar, cos Dean's not the only one I've heard-" at that instant, Meg turned, and plunged her dagger into the man behind her. The rest of her guard gaped, stunned, and with that hesitation, she slit the throat of a second man.

"GO!" she yelled at them, and Sam and Dean recovered their wits, quickly dispatching the rest of the guards. Chuck and Charlie lunged for the wall. They scrabbled frantically in the undergrowth, and – yes, there! A small gate, wrought iron, low and just large enough for a man to duck through if he bent at the waist. At her touch it swung open, and Charlie was just about to let Chuck go first, when he took the chance anyway (huh. Well, she hadn't exactly recruited him for his valour, so she couldn't complain). The heard the guards scream as they died, and then their small party was inside the tunnel, and Sam was bolting the gate from the inside with two iron slabs: whoever had built the tunnel had put some thought in.

Total darkness.

"Damn it!" – Sam's voice. Charlie realized his problem. The tunnel was scarcely high enough for her to stand in – the Winchesters must be extremely bent over.

"Meg – helped us," said Chuck in shock. "Why did Meg help us?"

Silence – but the silence changed quality.

"Sam? Dean?" Charlie asked.

"Meg - Meg is complicated," Sam said slowly.

"Meg is _crazy_," said Dean.

"She has her reasons," said Sam.

"Did she die?" asked Charlie. Some of those guards had been fighting back.

"Dunno," said Dean shortly.

"Look, can we go?" said Sam. "I'm really hoping this tunnel gets bigger at some point."

They went. The darkness was total, yet Charlie could still feel the walls pressing in around her.

Chuck began to hum.

"Chuck," said Dean warningly.

"Sorry." There was a moment of silence. Then Chuck began to hum again.

"CHUCK!"

"Sorry! I'm just – nervous. Gosh, is it hot in here. It's probably all the air we're breathing out. Hey, could we run out of air?"

"We'll run out faster if you keep talking," Sam pointed out. They trudged in silence for an indeterminate time. The tunnel did not get bigger, but nor was it particularly long – at least, it didn't seem long. Possibly Charlie was just hoping it would be longer in order to get further away from the castle. Suddenly:

"Moonlight!" Charlie glimpsed it in the distance. She pointed, though probably no-one could see her arm. Sam breathed an audible sigh of relief, and Chuck began to run. The end of the tunnel was a rotted trap door, which Chuck burst through with ease. Starlight and moonlight flooded the tunnel, dazzling afer the dark, and Charlie rushed up after Chuck, popping up from the earth to emerge like a mole –

- in the middle of an empty field.

TBC

A/N: fair warning, guys – I don't think there will be an update next week. I have 47 essays to mark. The week after will return to your regularly scheduled instalments J


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